


It's That Time of Year...

by Flangst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Bickering, Christmas Fluff, Cranky John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Shenanigans, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Johnlock Fluff, Kidlock, Kissing, Lack of Communication, Lingerie, M/M, Magical Realism, Mistletoe, Mrs. Holmes - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Retirement!lock, Sexual Content, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock on the run, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, but also a sweetie, fun with icing, hudders-and-hiddles, i don't know how to actually wash satin, i'll add more tags as i write, losing a pet, making lists, they're so dumb sometimes, writing letters, you probably don't stick it in the machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flangst/pseuds/Flangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is me attempting to do a writing prompt. Just in time for Christmas! Credit goes to hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles) for posting the prompt, which you can find <a href="%E2%80%9C">here</a> on tumblr. </p><p>May not be able to post every day but I'll still try to do something for each day. The rating might change as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toys In Every Store (Shopping for Presents)

Too elaborate.

Wrong color.

Too thin.

Too thick.

Too… much.

What was this even for?

 _Oh_. No, _definitely_ not.

Ugh. Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath, hunching deeper into his coat as though it would shield him better from the hordes of people milling about. He’d had it up to here with the piped-in Christmas music. (Honestly, what on Earth did sentient snowmen have to do with Christmas?) He’d been here for nearly an hour now, and his choices seemed no more obvious. Each item he’d considered was soon rejected for a number of very logical reasons. John would find most of this far too uncomfortably extravagant. Most of it was far outside his price range (though Sherlock was making every effort to share his trust fund whenever possible). John was a sensible, down-to-earth man from financially humble backgrounds, and the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was remind him of monetary differences with an expensive gift.

Still. There had to be something here that was tasteful enough for John to appreciate. He wandered a bit more, deciding that if he couldn’t find anything in the next half hour, he would try someplace else.

Rounding a corner, he stopped abruptly, irritated expression morphing into excitement.

Deep blue. Silky. Luxurious but understated.

Yes, _yes_ , this would be perfect!

A few minutes later he walked out the door with a black bag in one hand, corset, stockings and panties safely tucked out of sight. This would be a merry Christmas indeed.


	2. It's a Whipped Cream Day (Hot Cocoa)

John blew his nose as it began to run in the warm atmosphere of the cafe. The feeling was finally coming back into his nose and fingers, snow and ice melting off his coat and puddling on the floor. He’d run right to Speedy’s after his shift at St. Bart’s, his mind filled with thoughts of their speciality hot chocolate. He could practically taste it now: the thick, rich cocoa with just a hint of spice, piled high with coils of freshly whipped cream and topped with dark chocolate shavings and a cinnamon stick. He was nearly salivating.

Mrs. Hudson, the sweet old woman who owned the place, gave him a little wave as she went into the back room. As he set his jacket and gloves down on a table, the bell tinkled and another man stepped in from the cold, quickly closing the door against the bracing wind. John found himself staring a little too long at the tall stranger, who wore a heavy, black wool coat with the collar up and was unwinding a blue scarf to reveal a mop of wild dark curls and exquisite blue eyes. John shook himself and went up to the counter to order.

“One hot chocolate. With extra whipped cream, please.” 

The barista nodded and rang up his order. When he saw the amount he reached for his wallet.

Which was not there.

“Could have sworn I just…” Patting his pockets in puzzlement and then a bit more frantically, John realized that he did not, in fact, have it with him. Oh, no. He’d left it in the bloody surgery. 

“Never mind, cancel that order. I just… I thought I had my wallet with me. Bloody hell. Sorry. Sorry, I’ll go…” He blushed as he saw the man from earlier glance at him curiously from where he was engrossed in his phone. Feeling even more embarrassed, he hurried to the table to grab his stuff, overhearing the other man order.

As he was pulling on one wooly glove, something delicious and steaming was placed on the table. He blinked stupidly at the mug of hot cocoa sitting before him and then up at the blue-eyed man who was smiling at him, an identical mug in his hand. 

“I thought you could use mine.” God, but he was handsome. John’s heart made a funny little jolt. 

“Thank you… You didn’t need to…”

“I wanted to.”

John was perfectly happy to just stand there and gape more at this… this angel who had just made his day 100% better. But he remembered his manners and stuck out his hand.

“I’m, um, John Watson. Thank you again.” The man smiled wider and took his hand, and John’s whole body felt warm for reasons that had nothing to do with hot chocolate.

“Pleasure. Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. To Face Unafraid (Winter Wonderland)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to my sweet cat Blizzard, who passed away at the ripe old age of 18 today. I've been mourning him all evening, thus the late posting.

The grave marker was old, the stone worn by years out in the elements, but the name _Redbeard_ was still visible on the granite, along with some years that John couldn’t quite make out. Sherlock stood beside him, their hands still intertwined, uncharacteristically silent. He’d been leading John around the grounds of his parent’s house as the snow fell, and John had pointed out the grave marker at the edge of the extensive garden.

“Who’s Redbeard?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a long time. John thought maybe he should apologize for bringing up painful memories when the detective spoke.

“My Irish setter. I had him for the first ten years of my life. He was my… my best friend, when I was child.” Sherlock paused, swallowing and looking thoughtful. John wondered how often he’d spoken about this pet. “When I was 10, he ran off one winter and developed pneumonia after he came back. He didn’t get improve, and… well, my parents decided it was better not to have him lingering on in pain, so. I came home from school and he was gone.”

“Oh.” John hadn’t had any pets beyond a cranky old cat that had generally hated him growing up, but he could tell how much this had shook Sherlock to his core. Sherlock was so very sensitive, even though he desperately tried to keep the world at bay. John had seen him at his most vulnerable and human, and his heart ached for the hurt ten-year-old boy who still resided in his partner. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. That must have been hard.”

Sherlock half-shrugged. “Mycroft used it as a teaching moment. ‘Don’t get attached.’ Redbeard had been my only real friend and losing him was… it was a difficult experience. Very… difficult.”

Typical Mycroft. Maybe, in his own strange way he’d been trying to help, John thought. “I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”

“Why? It was almost thirty years ago now.” “I know, but I can see how much it affected you and how much it still does. It’s ok to miss the people we loved, Sherlock, it’s part of being human.”

“After Redbeard died, I wished I wasn’t human. I hated feeling so much hurt and loss. I couldn't handle it. I took Mycroft’s words to heart. I tried not to get attached to anyone… and then I met you.” Sherlock gave him a crooked half-smile and John felt himself melt a little inside.

“I’m glad I changed your mind about it,” he chuckled, leaning against Sherlock as the little grave was slowly covered in white.

“You changed my heart,” responded Sherlock softly, wrapping his arm around John’s waist.


	4. If The Fates Allow (Christmas Cards)

~~_Dear John,_ ~~

_My dearest John,_

_I hope this card finds you well. I wish I could be with you now. I know I usually look down on the overwhelming saccharine flavor of the holidays but I find myself desiring your presence more than usual right now. It’s extremely cold here; London would be nearly balmy by comparison. It’s beautiful, in a stark sort of way. There’s definitely quite a lot of Christmas commercialism, but it’s a different flavor than England’s._

_I used to think that I preferred solitude over almost anything else but now, after half a year without you it's as if there’s a hole in my life that keeps getting bigger. It’s horribly cliche, but isn’t this the time of year for that sort of thing?_

(continued on the back of the card)

_I can’t apologize enough for the magnitude of my deception. It was for the best but I never wished to cause you more distress. However, to save your life I would do it again in an instant. Your safety and continued livelihood is of utmost importance._

_I… I miss you, John. I miss you very much and I hope that in spite of everything you’re having a good Christmas. Perhaps you’ve found someone to spend it with. When I return–and I promise to return to you, John–I’ll explain everything. I give you my word._

 _Merry Christmas._

 _

Sherlock

_

Somewhere in snowy Lithuania, a tall, scruffy man with curly dark hair spilling over his collar stamped the letter and pushed it into the rusted mailbox on the corner. Icy eyes glanced right and left before he pulled up his hood and skulked away. He couldn’t afford to hang around, not with the serial killer still looking for him. He didn’t know if any of his letters even made it to John. Maybe, in a cowardly way, he hoped they didn’t. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain himself if he ever miraculously received a response. But writing them gave him allowed him the fantasy, however foolish it was, that he was still present in John’s life.


	5. Golden Days of Yore (Ghosts of Christmas Past)

Christmas Eve 1895

The bells of Big Ben tolled the midnight hour deep and sonorous in the distance, and 221B Baker Street was snug and warm, its two inhabitants relaxed and drowsy in their armchairs. John settled back with a contented sigh, unbuttoning his cuffs as the warmth of the fire suffused him. The remains of a modest Christmas Eve dinner sat on the table between them, the majority warming their stomachs. Mrs. Hudson had left it out for them before bidding them goodbye to visit her sister for the week. 

John felt a tingle of excitement in his gut. With Mrs. Hudson gone for the week, he and Sherlock could be a little… freer with their affections. He glanced over at his companion, who was leaning on the arm of his chair, hand dangling nearly close enough for John to take it. His curls were slowly coming loose from their strict, tamed back style and he looked softer, sweet and so very human. Something hot and molten settled in John’s belly.

Sherlock sensed him looking and caught his gaze, smiling at him. “Merry Christmas, my dear fellow.”

“And to you, Holmes.” John raised an eyebrow and gently took Sherlock’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles and then pulling his companion to his feet and coaxing him to sit with him. Sherlock blushed a lovely pink and stared, entranced, as John brought his hand to his lips and kissed his palm. Sherlock’s tiny “oh” emboldened John and he pulled Sherlock forward until they were nearly torso to torso, Sherlock straddling him, and he was looking up into the detective’s eyes. Solitude, love and perhaps a touch of brandy made him bold. 

“We have the week to ourselves, Sherlock, what shall we do?”

At the sound of his Christian name, Sherlock blushed deeper, squirming slightly over John’s thighs. John could feel the evidence of his interest against his belly. “J-John…”

“I adore you, you beautiful creature.” John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him down until he could kiss him properly. Sherlock exhaled in a loud gust and kissed him back eagerly. John could feel him trembling against him and petted his back gently, soothing him. Sherlock moaned loudly as John broke the kiss and began kissing down his slender, flushed throat, nipping playfully as he went. 

“John, oh God!”

Outside snow sifted down muffled the world, smothering it in white, but inside 221B it couldn’t have been cozier.


	6. So Be Good For Goodness Sake (Naughty and Nice)

“Sherlock! What the hell did you do?”

Sherlock pushed back his goggles, staring disdainfully at John through the foul green smoke permeating the kitchen. The experiment which had presently exploded continued to smolder gently on the range, dripping yellowish… something… onto the range. The air smelled vaguely like burnt pine sap.

“John. You’re home.” He switched off the range, reaching down and retrieving the fire extinguisher. The stove was quickly coated with a layer of foam, and John sighed in irritation. It had been a long, frustrating day at the clinic, with a flu outbreak keeping him busy for his entire 10-hour-shift. The Tube had been horrendously crowded, more than usual, and some old lady had kept jamming her cane into his leg. He was tired, hungry and grouchy and now this on top of everything else.

“Hang on. Where’s our wreath?” Then his brain finally made the connection. “Sherlock, did you… cook on the wreath?” “

It was an experiment to see at what temperature the twigs would release sap. I haven’t had a case in three days, John!” Sherlock responded defensively, leaving the remains of the wreath to coagulate in the saucepan. “You know how I get when I’m bored!”

“You can’t just use that as an excuse to destroy things in the flat, Sherlock! I live here too! Or did you forget that?” John yelled, temper was fraying rapidly.

“For God’s sake, John, it’s just a wreath! It’s a piece of tree that you’ve attached absurd amounts of sentimental value to because of an overly commercialized holiday that you barely enjoy anyways! Who cares?” Sherlock was shouting back, looking slightly manic with his hair fluffed by the humidity and shirt splattered with pine sap.

“Well spending it with _you_ doesn’t make Christmas any more enjoyable!” It was a mean thing to say and John knew it but he was too annoyed and tired to apologize. He felt a pang of guilt as Sherlock’s eyes widened in momentary hurt. Then Sherlock glared at him, turned with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown and stormed back to the kitchen. John threw up his hands and stomped to his room.

He came down later, calmer and prepared to apologize to Sherlock. When he reached the main floor he stopped, stunned. Strands of silver tinsel crisscrossed the mantel, and each window was ringed in lights. They had no tree, but Sherlock had dangled lights and a few ornaments from the buffalo skull. There was no sign of the wreath-destroying experiment. Sherlock was picking at a piece of tinsel hanging in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Sherlock…” John breathed, shocked by this sudden display of festivity. Sherlock jumped and turned around, bashfully avoiding John’s gaze.

“John, I… wanted to apologize. I know you value tradition more than I do and I should have respected that. I apologize for trivializing that.” It came softly and John could see he was sincere. His long fingers knotted together in agitation.

“No, Sherlock… I shouldn’t have said what I said to you. You’re right, I’ve never loved Christmas all that much, but I do love to spend it with you.” He clamped his mouth shut, afraid of what other romantic babble would come out if he kept talking. Sherlock finally caught his eye and smiled–a real smile. John felt himself smile back. “Thank you for decorating the flat. You didn’t have to do all this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the smirk remained. “Well, as long as you’re going to insist on the sentimental aspects of Christmas, I suppose I can tolerate it for a few weeks.”

“Cheers.” John meant to give him a friendly pat on the back, but his hand lingered a bit too long and he withdrew it hastily, coughing to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock’s gaze burned into his back all the way to the refrigerator.


	7. Every Mother's Child (The Nutcracker)

“Oh, Sherlock, do you remember this? You were only five, oh, you were so cute! Let’s see if the old VCR still works.”

“Mum–no, I don’t think we really need to–”

“John! I want to show you something!”

“No! No, no–Mum–”

“What is it, Mrs. Holmes? Hey, Sherlock–”

“It’s nothing, she doesn’t have anything to show you, let’s go–”

“Stop it, Sherlock. Let me just get this set up–ah, here we go!”

“Sherlock… is that you?”

Sherlock looked away, mortified.

On the screen, on blurry Super 8 film (whoever was holding the camera could have really benefitted from investing in a tripod) was a pint-sized Sherlock, a wild puff of black curls making him stand out easily among the other primary school children. He was dressed in a bright red toy soldier costume, looking incredibly stiff and uncomfortable the way primary school children in plays always did. Through the cheap speakers John could hear Mrs. Holmes calling to her son from the audience.

“Sherlock! Over here sweetheart! Oh, he looks so handsome, look Ted! Here, how do you zoom this in–”

The image onscreen flailed about wildly before briefly settling on a chubbier, much younger, scowling Mycroft, whose hair was a great deal more ginger. “Why do we have to do this?” he whined before the camera swung back to the stage. John stifled a chuckle behind his hand. Even prepubescent and stuffed into an slightly-too-small suit, Mycroft already radiated the stuffy, pompous self-importance that oozed from him wherever he went.

Tinny strands of _Waltz of the Flowers_ bled through the TV speakers as the Sherlock and the other children on stage stomped awkwardly across the stage in a clunky, disjointed unit that was only somewhat synced to the movement. John could hear Sherlock’s parents muttering to one another and alternately shushing Mycroft’s sarcastic running commentary. This was precious.

Sherlock was squirming next to him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. John reached out and squeezed his lover’s hand reassuringly, then reached up, letting his hand rest loosely on the back of Sherlock’s neck, tugging gently at his curls. Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch, and then met his gaze, his eyes begging silently for a reprieve from the endless embarrassment. John nodded to him and stood. Mrs. Holmes didn’t seem to notice or care as they tiptoed out of the room as the video of Sherlock’s 1983 Christmas play continued to play in the background.


	8. Stealing A Kiss or Two (Baking)

To stave off a possible boredom-induced strop, John had suggested they bake gingerbread men on one of his days off. Sherlock had initially scoffed but had begun to get into it when they began stamping out the shapes of the cookies. He started getting creative, decapitating some of them and arranging them in various ways on the tray. 

John had to laugh when they began to frost the cookies and it was clear that one of the decapitated cookies was supposed to be Anderson. Each of the cookies was carefully iced to mimic someone they knew–a particularly fat one became Mycroft, for instance. Two cookies holding hands in the middle, one with a frosted jumper and one with a long coat, made him smile. John was just putting the finishing touches on a Molly cookie when there was a splat of icing against the side of his face. He froze and slowly turned to gape at Sherlock, who was staring back, seeming equally shocked and holding a drooping bag of white icing. A dribble of icing landed on the tray, ruining what may have been a Lestrade cookie. 

“Sherlock–”

“John–” Sherlock looked like he was desperate holding in a laugh, and a nervous giggle escaped him. John let a slow, dangerous smile play across his face. It was the sort of smile that both aroused Sherlock and unnerved him. Before Sherlock could run John leapt at him, seizing him by the collar and squishing their noses together.

“John! Stop!” Sherlock was laughing too hard to really struggle properly as John smeared icing over his face. John smirked and gave him a very sugary kiss, which Sherlock eagerly reciprocated. Then Sherlock grabbed John’s face between his palms and dragged his tongue across his cheek, licking the icing away as John’s knees went weak. The cooling cookies and deflated bag of icing were forgotten as the two slowly sank to the kitchen floor.


	9. That's Not a Lot (Making a List)

An ~~Stupid~~ Helpful List of Improvements for Me to Make in the Coming Year

by Sherlock Holmes

_Remember to air out the flat when doing combustible experiments._

_Buy new fire blanket._

_Make effort to remember Lestrade’s first name._

~~_Grahm_ ~~

~~_George_ ~~

~~_Geoff_ ~~

_Try to thank Mrs. Hudson more often._

_Cook more than once a year._

_Buy more milk._

_Be nicer to Molly._

_But not too nice._

_Don’t want to give her the wrong idea._

_Curb jealous reflexes._

_Be the big spoon more._

~~_Gavin_ ~~

_Kiss John every time he leaves the house ~~in case something happens.~~_

_Be there for John when he can’t be there for himself._

_Encourage John to reach out to his sister._

~~_Gabriel_ ~~

~~_Giovanni_ ~~

_Tolerate Mycroft more._

_(This will be challenging. Better work my way up in small increments)_

_Hug John every day._

_Tell John I love him at least once a day._

_Touch John._

_Touch John lots._

_Especially in bed._

_Buy John a better jumper._ _Maybe in cornflower blue, it would match his eyes._

~~_Garth_ ~~

_Be better than I was the day before, because John deserves nothing less than the best of me._


	10. If You're Not Here With Me (Scrooge)

He had gone too far. They’d been incredibly busy all week and Sherlock could sense that John was feeling a little pushed to the side, but surely he’d understood why? It was the Work, and Sherlock needed to be 100% engaged to work as quickly as possible, so he could get back to focusing entirely on John.

John had wanted to bring Sherlock to his pub to meet some of his old army buddies who were in town for Christmas. Sherlock had felt awkward but ultimately agreed to go, knowing it would make John happy. But John had gotten a little too drunk and Sherlock had accidentally overheard him complaining to Murray about the way Sherlock tended to restrict his physical desires and behavior during a case. Sherlock distinctly remembered the phrase “miserly” being used. 

Sherlock had felt his stomach drop. He’d no idea John felt this way. He thought John understood… he couldn’t be distracted with the Work, so much depended on him being on top of his game. But if it was hurting John… if John felt….

And then the confusion and hurt had morphed into a hot ball of anger and he’d snapped at John, telling him that if it bothered him so much there were plenty of other people in London he could satisfy his sexual needs with. John had looked shocked and angry, and told him to fuck off. Sherlock had stormed out of the pub and had felt the weight of unhappiness and shame fall on him as heavily as lead blanket. He’d hailed a cab and returned him, throwing off his coat and curling up in a miserable ball on his–their–bed. He buried his face in John’s pillow and tried to absorb every little nuance of his scent, as it was likely after tonight that John would return upstairs, wanting nothing more of their budding romantic relationship. A vision of a John-less flat, a best friend who wouldn’t answer his phone, and the prospect of a solitary future danced in his head. He hated himself for what he’d said. 

And Sherlock wouldn’t be able to go on, having had a taste of what it could be with John only to have it retracted. 

He heard heavy footprints up the stairs and his heart began pounding too fast. He felt nauseous. He wanted to go out–apologize–something–but he felt pinned by the weight of fear and guilt. Then the door opened and John made his way slowly inside. He smelled like beer and Sherlock wondered, feeling sick, if he’d turned to one of his own friends for comfort. He heard John sigh and then the bed dipped slightly as he lay down next to Sherlock. Sherlock nearly jumped in surprise as he felt a hand gently rest on his lower back. He looked up from the pillow, blinking in confusion at a grim-looking John.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out before John could say anything. He didn’t feel like he had the right to touch John, but he needed him to know before John left. “I shouldn’t have said that–it was wrong and I know it was not the sort of thing your friends should have overheard. Please–I–I’m sorry for the way I am. I’m sorry I can’t make you happy. I just–I’m sorry, John.” His throat tightened and Sherlock willed himself not to cry. This night was quickly becoming one of the worst in recent memory. 

John looked alarmed. “Sherlock, no! I–no, you do make me happy! I’m the one who should be apologizing! I was drunk, and yeah, maybe I was feeling a little neglected but that’s no excuse and it’s not–I don’t really feel that way. I was entirely out of line and I know how much you’re trying. This is all new to you and it isn’t fair of me to completely expect you to change yourself to please me. Please forgive me, Sherlock. I really am sorry.” John looked at him earnestly, pleading, the hand on Sherlock’s back gently rubbing soothing circles. The stifling weight lifted a little. John wasn’t… mad? 

“I would change, John. I’d change anything to make you happy.” It sounded terribly clingy and insecure, but it was true. Sherlock had moved heaven and Earth to make John happy and safe. Hell, his entire mind palace was built around John at this point. Changing aspects of his personality and behavior were things he’d happily do in heartbeat if it meant John’s happiness.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t want you to change who you are–I fell in love with you because of who you are. I should have known better–I know that you need to focus during a case and I also know that you’re doing the best to integrate us and the Work. I hate making you feel… I dunno, inadequate? Like you’ve got some standard to live up to. You don’t. Ok?” 

Sherlock nodded slowly, considering. He felt infinitely more relieved. It was true that John had never pushed him untowardly for sex, but he knew the signs of sexual frustration and knew that John was probably accustomed to more frequent sex in a relationship. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t want the physical side of their relationship–to be honest, he craved it almost constantly, but he also wanted to keep some control of himself lest he became entirely consumed by his transport. John made him want things he’d never considered before. He finally reached out and wrapped an arm around John’s back, snuggling in close and reveling in the warm assurance of his body. John sighed contentedly (and somewhat beerily) against his neck. 

“Do you feel that way, though? That I… neglect you in favor the Work?” Sherlock asked softly, after a long moment.

“No,” said John firmly. Sherlock quietly waited for him to continue, knowing that wasn’t everything. “I… I’ve never been in a relationship like the one we’re in with you. It’s not that I don’t know how you feel, or that I don’t think you ever express it. And I don’t ever want to be with anyone else! I guess sometimes I… I see you retreat into your head and I feel like I’m losing you a little. I know it’s stupid, I just… Sometimes when you’re deep in a case it’s like you’re there but not really.”

“Oh.” Sherlock knew he would often sink deep into his mind palace, sometimes emerging hours later without realizing that time had passed. But because John was such an integral part of the mind palace… he didn’t always realize John wasn’t actually with him every minute. “I… I guess I never realized. I don’t mean to neglect you, John, I just–you’re here,” he gestured to his head, “all the time and I feel that if I… if I never try to keep my transport under control I’ll never be able to do anything, because I–all of me–craves you. Constantly,” he added, brushing his lips over John’s forehead. 

John snuggled in a little closer. “Well, that’s flattering,” he chuckled. “I know you don’t mean to close me out, love. I guess I’ve been… missing being with lately because it seems like we’ve had one case on top of another and not a lot of time for just the two of us. Tonight was supposed to be fun and I botched it up. I acted like a complete jackass.”

“I forgive you,” replied Sherlock instantly, hugging John tighter.” And if you… still want to have fun, we could certainly make the most of our time right now,” he added in what he hoped was a seductive manner.

John looked surprised but certainly not reluctant. “Really? You wanna… after tonight? Not that I’m complaining!” The hand on Sherlock’s lower back crept around to his backside.

Sherlock rolled over so he was straddling John, looming over his face before kissing him thoroughly. “I’ve missed you too, John,” he breathed. “And it seems to me you need to be reminded exactly how much you’re in my head every second of every day.”

John grinned widely. “Show me.”


	11. Say, What's In This Drink? (Mulled Wine)

“Sherlock, how long did you, uh… what’s it…”

“Mull the…”

“Wine, yeah! That! How long did you?”

“Er…” Sherlock peered into his glass, brow furrowed, as though the burgundy liquid would hold the answer. He swayed a bit and leaned against the counter for support. “I don’t remember.” He snorted with laughter and John joined in. He wasn’t sure why it was so funny, but they’d been drinking enough wine that it didn’t matter. 

“At least it tasthes… tastes… good. Ish.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

John giggled. “Did you just lisp??” 

Sherlock’s cheeks, already flushed from the wine, reddened further. “I do not lithp. Lisp! I don’t–stop laughing!” John was doubled over giggling, having set his glass on the table so he wouldn’t spill it. Sherlock looked away, attempting to pout but the slight twitch of his lips gave him away. 

He looked adorable. Kissing him would be a grand idea, thought John, so he did. Sherlock responded hesitantly, lips soft and pliant under John’s, and John heard him sigh softly. 

He pulled back and Sherlock stared at him, dazed and shy, holding the glass of mulled wine like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Ok?”

“Do it again?” asked Sherlock hopefully. John quickly downed the rest of his glass–no sense in letting good wine go to waste, and he could use the courage–and stepped into Sherlock’s open arms.


	12. A Sentimental Feeling (Ugly Christmas Sweaters)

“Oh… Mrs. Hudson, you… really shouldn’t have.”

Mrs. Hudson had insisted on a Christmas Eve get-together before they went their separate ways (her to her sister’s, and John and Sherlock to Sherlock’s parent’s house) and they’d brought out gifts after a delicious roast. From the two of them she’d received a beautiful new tea set (Sherlock may have destroyed the previous one in an unfortunate copper sulfate accident), noise-canceling headphones (for… reasons) and a new coat. In turn they’d recieved a new set of bedsheets (shifty eyes were exchanged) and two additional packages. Sherlock’s eyes widened in silent horror as he lifted the box lid and revealed a garishly colored, wooly abomination straight from his worst nightmares.

“I know! I saw them and I thought, it would be a perfect funny Christmas gift. You know, the ugly jumpers tradition and all. I had a few in my time.”

“I’m sure you did.” Sherlock lifted it up gingerly–oh it had lights–between two fingers and glanced over at John, who was unboxing a neon green garment with a reindeer sticking out of the front. He was desperately trying not to smile. Oh God, he was enjoying this, thought Sherlock.

“Well, put them on, boys! Let me see how–oh, wait, I’ll get the camera!”

“No, Mrs. Hudson–” But she had already fluttered off to the back rooms like an over-excited songbird.

“Come on Sherlock, just this once, be a good sport.” To his horror, John was already pulling on his own jumper, Rudolf protruding cheerfully from his chest like a cancerous growth. 

“John, have you seen this?? It looks like a drunk got ahold of a pair of knitting needles.” 

“Sherlock, please. Mrs. Hudson would love it.”

“Mrs. Hudson has been drinking too–”

“Sherlock.” John was using the Voice.Sherlock Sherlock let out a very deep, long suffering sigh, made sure John was aware of his agony, and slipped on the jumper. The wool tickled at his neck. Mrs. Hudson returned, 35-milimeter camera in hand, and nearly squealed at the sight of them.

“Oh, my boys! You look precious! Smile!” 

John smiled. Sherlock grimaced. But on the second photo, John kissed him on the cheek, at which Sherlock couldn’t help but grin.

He never told anyone that he made a copy of that photo.


	13. Sure Delightful (Warming Up By The Fire)

As soon as he was inside, John locked the door, hurrying over to the fireplace. He built up the fire with numb hands, and it took a few fumbling tries to light it. Behind him, Sherlock was crouched in his chair, dripping and trembling so violently the chair was rattling against the floor. Finally the dry timber caught and a fire blazed to life. John collapsed with relief, then remembered the situation. Thames. December. Freezing. Right.

“Sh-Sh-Sherlock, get out of your c-c-c-c-clothes, I’ll g-get blankets,” he chattered out, already yanking off his coat, shoes, and socks. Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he nodded, throwing off the Belstaff and trying to pick open his shirt buttons with frozen fingers.

John stumbled over to their bedroom, ripping off the duvet and dragging it back to the living room. At this point, Sherlock had managed to strip down to his pants, and looked pathetically cold and helpless standing by the fire, vibrating with chills. John quickly stripped to nothing and threw the blanket over both of them, huddling them practically onto the hearth. Gradually their violent shuddering calmed down to the occasionally shiver.

“I-idiot,” John finally murmured, leaning over to press his lips to Sherlock’s warming neck, feeling the pulse flutter under his mouth. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t about to let our only evidence get away, John.” Sherlock’s arm slowly crept around John’s back, pulling him snugly into his side. 

John sighed heavily, smiling in spite of himself and leaning more into the madman he loved more than anything. The fire crackled and popped merrily as they began to doze.


	14. Where The Treetops Glisten (Trimming the Tree)

“It’s too visually overwhelming over there. Move it to the right.”

“Sherlock, I’ve moved the tree 15 times now. It was fine where it was originally! My arms hurt.”

“John, you wanted me to help–”

“And by ‘help’ what you actually meant was watch me haul it in, put it in its stand, and string the lights, tinsel and ornaments while you made obnoxious comments from your chair, then?”

“I’m supervising.”

“You are not! When’s the last time you even put up a Christmas tree?”

“That’s besides the point.”

“No, you know what? You move it, genius. I need a break before I start throwing ornaments.”

“That would be highly counterproductive. Very well…”

“Sherlock, what–no, don’t do that–”

*CRASH*

“… Do you suppose Mrs. Hudson was really attached to those curtains?”


	15. A Thousand Invitations (Christmas Party)

Sherlock lurked in the corner of the room at the Yard’s Christmas party, nursing an untouched glass of eggnog. John was over by the buffet table. He’d insisted that Sherlock eat something, ignorant of Sherlock’s protesting grunts and eye rolls, and was assembling a myriad of goodies, some of which Sherlock would hopefully be interested in. 

He gazed disinterestedly around the room. Lestrade and Molly were getting cozy on one of the ugly brown couches, and Molly looked like she was on her third cosmo. Donovan was chatting animatedly with one of the evidence officers while Anderson watched jealously (this falling out seemed permanent. Sherlock wondered at what point his wife had threatened to leave for good) Detective Dimmock was on his phone, loitering by the doors (Waiting to leave with someone?) Boring. Dull. A waste of his time, but John had insisted…

He sighed.

“Sherlock?” John was at his elbow, holding up a plate of nibbles and sipping his own glass of eggnog. Sherlock pursued the plate, finally consenting to a sugar cookie to make him happy. 

“Was it really necessary to attend this?”

“We were invited by Lestrade, and I wanted to come. You didn’t have to,” shrugged John, eating a forkful of egg salad.

“Well. I.” Sherlock tried to find a way to word it without sounding horribly codependent. “You shouldn’t suffer through this sort of thing alone.”

“Sherlock, I think the only one suffering is you,” said John with a hint of laugh. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock scanned the room. “That couple over there is going to break up soon, possibly tonight. He’s already started up a new relationship with one of the secretaries. She doesn’t know but she’s so disillusioned she doesn’t care. That man over there just lost his dog. He’s showing everyone pictures but he’s drunk enough that he won’t cry about it. The woman there–”

“And this is why I wanted you to come,” chuckled John, threading his arm through Sherlock’s. He felt his heart and stomach flutter pleasantly. “These sorts of things are only fun with you.”

“Oh.”

“Ready to go home?”

Sherlock swallowed, slowly reaching out to take John’s hand. “I thought you’d never say it.”


	16. Many Times, Many Ways (Family Traditions)

66 beads, half white and half black. Sherlock had strung two beads on the string every Christmas since he and John had finally realized that they didn’t want to be apart anymore. John hadn’t realized the significance until much later. It was a physical marker of time for them both, a small reminder that even if memories faded and feelings cooled, there always would be evidence of their time together. After so many Christmases filled with death, hurt, misunderstanding and grief, it was proof of their survival, and more importance, their survival together.

Sherlock’s hair was thickly streaked with grey now, John was relying on his cane more than ever these days, and their faces were lined with wrinkles, but their love remained undiminished. They’d long since left London and 221B, moving out to Sussex in the cottage Janine had sold them. There had been both wonderful and poor Christmases, but without fail Sherlock always strung two beads on the string, even in the worst of times. To see Sherlock voluntarily carry out such a sentimental act made John realize how much he’d changed–for the better, John thought–since they’d met. He was getting soft in his old age, perhaps.

His husband would scoff and grumble when John expressed these thoughts, but it never failed to bring a smile to his face. Sherlock loved him, John thought. He loved him, and he didn’t need beads to prove it. All John had to do was look into his eyes.


	17. In My Dreams (Christmas Without You)

“I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

John sighed, putting his book down and rubbing his temples. Maybe another shot of whiskey was in order, but the beginnings of a headache suggested otherwise. This night had been going… well not terribly, and then Sherlock had insulted Molly and things had gone downhill. John felt something in his gut burn with envy at the memory of Sherlock kissing her on the cheek.

Then Jeanette had broken up with him, and in retrospect he had to admit, he didn’t really blame her. He didn’t know who he was trying to kid, really. It was virtually impossible to sustain a romantic relationship with Sherlock as his flatmate, and even more so considering how he felt towards the man. Jeanette’s accusation hit a lot closer to home than he was comfortable with.

And now the death of the Woman. John still wasn’t sure what to make of her. All he knew is she was the only person he’d ever seen really catch Sherlock off guard. And that bothered him–in a protective, entirely platonic friendship-type way, of course. And… well, ok, it had bothered him (a lot) to come in on her straddling Sherlock’s lap naked. And yes, she was very beautiful. And as soon as he’d received her phone, Sherlock had retreated, refusing to speak with him except a few words in passing. John had definitely lost him for the night. Another lonely Christmas Eve, then. He didn’t know what he’d really expected, really. But Sherlock seemed really broken up about this, in his own way.

John was NOT jealous!

He was just… worried.

Yeah. That was it.

He sighed again, heavily, and went into the kitchen. Maybe he’d have that whiskey after all.


	18. Somebody Waits for You (Mistletoe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the last one I can post for a couple days depending on how the good the wifi is where I'm going. But not to worry, each day will still get a short story.

Mrs. Hudson had put it up in the doorway to the stairs of their flat a few days ago, and John had carefully avoided accidentally passing underneath with Sherlock. Not because he didn’t want to kiss him; on the contrary, there was little more John wanted to do than to seize Sherlock, dip him back and kiss him senseless. But that might be an unwelcome gesture. Or at least John assumed it would be, though sometimes Sherlock would give him a certain Look and he’d wonder.

In the end, Sherlock made the decision for him.

“Come on, John! This is the second body they’ve found stuffed in a chimney! The most creative serial killing I’ve seen in a while; it’s Christmas!”

“Literally,” muttered John, zipping up his jacket and hurrying to join Sherlock, who was waiting in the doorway. John didn’t even realize what he was up to until he saw Sherlock point upwards at the little round-leafed plant hanging innocently from the doorframe. 

“Oh–”

And then Sherlock kissed him. And kept kissing him. And, oh… Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him firmly, keeping him upright as John’s knees had decided this was a good moment to give out. He sagged helplessly against Sherlock, one hand reaching up to tangle in luxurious black curls and the other one trapped between his chest and Sherlock’s. He could feel Sherlock’s heart slamming out a rhythm against his palm.

John licked his way between plush lips and was rewarded by Sherlock holding him tighter and moaning into his mouth. They swayed slightly, licking and sucking and delving into each others’ mouths, learning each other in a most intimate way. John wondered breathlessly if this would lead to other, more intimate explorations. Preferably ones that could be carried out on his bed.

Or Sherlock’s. He wasn’t picky.

Finally Sherlock pulled away, panting slightly. His mouth was delightfully kiss-reddened and his cheeks were flushed; his hair was a wreak. He was beautiful. 

“Uh. Well. I. That is… Lestrade’s expecting us,” he murmured quietly, leaning his forehead against John’s. A big part of John wanted to say “fuck the case” and abscond with Sherlock to the nearest bedroom, but now wasn’t the time. His heart was still pounding wildly.

“Lead the way.” 

Taking John’s hand, Sherlock did exactly that.


	19. Strike the Harp (Christmas Songs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten ahold of some wifi, and posting will resume as scheduled.

Hauntingly beautiful strains of a violin pulled John from a series of bizarre and increasingly sensual dreams. He started awake, feeling warm and tingly and stretched, relieved that he didn’t have to wake up for an early shift this morning. What time was it anyhow?

Christ, almost 11:00.

The violin continued, launching into the familiar “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” with a lot of lyrical flourishes. John smiled, pulling his robe tighter around himself and going down to greet Sherlock. 

Sherlock gave no indication that he’d noticed John’s arrival, but tea was already steeping next to John’s armchair, an unexpected gesture of thoughtfulness. Murmuring a “thank you” to Sherlock, he settled into his chair and sipped at it. Hot, strong and just a tiny bit sweet, just how he liked it.

The swooping, trilling violin eventually stopped and Sherlock went to sit across from John as though he hadn’t just been playing Christmas music for the last fifty minutes.

John didn’t have any particular affinity for Christmas music, but it sounded so much better when Sherlock played it. He smiled at Sherlock until the other man looked up, slightly embarrassed, and asked if he had something on his face.


	20. Find My Stockings Filled With You (All Wrapped Up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is where the story earns its Mature rating. Nothing too bad
> 
> This is a direct continuation of Chapter 1

John was pretty sure he looked like a brain-dead fish but he couldn’t have cared less. Sherlock had said he’d had a “Christmas surprise” for when he woke up but John hadn’t been expecting THIS.

Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, hair curling fetchingly around his face. He was wearing very little, but the little he was wearing… wow. The corset cinched around his torso was a deep midnight blue, complimenting his eyes. John’s eyes traveled helplessly to the pair of skimpy, lace-edged panties in a matching blue. They were doing a rather poor job of concealing Sherlock’s obvious erection. John could see the tip pushing out, swollen and pink, at the waistline. It made his mouth water. The garters wrapped around Sherlock’s thighs led John’s gaze down his endless legs and the stockings that graced them. He watched, mesmerized, as they walked slowly towards him, Sherlock swaying his hips with each step. He pirouetted when he got to the bed, offering John a shameless view of his perfect round arse and the way the panties left absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

“Christ, Sherlock…” He was harder than a rock under the sheets.

“Hello, John. I trust you’re pleased by my gift…?” teased Sherlock, slinking onto the blankets like a panther and letting his hips lightly brush against John’s aching cock.

“Fuck…” He gripped those satin-clad hips and arched his own up, grinding their erections together. “Merry Christmas to me.” Sherlock moaned loudly, throwing his head back and exposing his throat for John to attack with licks and kisses. John frantically kicked the sheets off and pulled Sherlock to his body, picking open the ties of the corset so he could reach in and run his hands over Sherlock’s soft skin. He then reached down, freeing Sherlock’s cock so that he could align them and messily jerk them both off. They panted into each other’s mouths until they finally came, splattering Sherlock’s fancy lingerie. The younger man groaned and collapsed atop John happily, uncaring of how he was smearing semen into the expensive fabric.

“Sorry I ruined your satin, love,” John muttered, rubbing Sherlock’s bum with the hand that wasn’t trapped under him.

“Comes off in the wash,” mumbled Sherlock into his neck. “Merry Christmas, John.”


	21. The Ones I Used to Know (Christmas Movies)

“What is this tripe?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer! It’s a classic, you must have seen it at least partway once.”

“If I did, I must have deleted it. And rightfully so.”

“Oh come on, it’s fun!”

“It’s asinine.”

“It’s not very long. Look–we’ll just watch this then flip over to something else.”

Pouting. Shifting about on couch cushions. “Fine.”

10 MINUTES IN…

“Why is Santa encouraging the abuse of Rudolph? He can’t control his deformity.”

“Well, it’s… yeah, actually, Santa’s a dick in this movie for some reason.”

15 MINUTES IN…

“There aren’t an known gold or silver mines above the Arctic circle!”

“It’s for kids, Sherlock!”

“So they want to teach inaccurate information?”

25 MINUTES IN…

“I don’t understand. Did Santa really not know where the Island of Lost Toys was? Or did he just not care?”

“Maybe both? I don’t know. He probably doesn’t care what happened to the toys after he delivered them.”

“So this is a massive regifting operation of inferior toys.”

“Essentially? I mean some of them are perfectly fine.”

“Oh, thank God it’s over.”

“Yeah… I mean it has some nostalgic value but… yeah, that wasn’t as good as I remember.”

“Naturally, John. Nostalgia often clouds the memories of our childhoods.”

“No thanks to you talking through the entire thing.”

More shifting. Arm wrapped around a pair of narrow shoulders. 

“Well, I’ll watch more Christmas tripe with you if we can cuddle.”

“Are you going to talk through those ones too?”

“Maybe.”

Kiss.

“Maybe not.”


	22. Really Hold Me Tight (Snowed In)

It was solid white outside the window when John awoke. He peered at it, puzzled, than got up to investigate, ignoring the grunt of displeasure from his bedmate. A glance out the window cleared things up. Metaphorically speaking.

London was utterly snowed in, fat flakes still drifting down from the sky. Several inches had accumulated on the windowsill, and the glass fogged as John exhaled onto it. He couldn’t tell the roads from the footpaths, and not a single car was making tracks through the fresh snowdrifts. There was no way he could get into work today.

“Hi, Sarah? Yeah, we’re completely snowed in here–oh, you too? Yeah, are there–ok, yeah, thanks, great. Hopefully some of this will clear up by then. Ok. Yeah, I will, thanks. Bye.”

Tossing his phone back onto the nightstand, he snuggled back into bed, scooting into the mess of splayed limbs until their owner pulled them away from the center. “Budge over.”

“Hmmm. You’re letting in the cold air.” 

“Gah! Your hands are freezing!” John squirmed as Sherlock got to work adhering their bodies together, limbs wrapped around him like a death grip and snuffling into his neck. Sherlock shushed him and pulled the duvet up until they were in a sweltering cave.

“I was quite comfortable before you woke me up. Quiet,” ordered the detective, kissing John’s shoulder and laying an arm over his chest. John swatted him on the backside, smirking, and allowed the sound of Sherlock’s breathing to lull him to sleep.


	23. Just One Thing I Need (All I Want for Christmas Is You)

“John…”

“Hmm?” John lazily rubbed the tip of his nose against Sherlock’s in an affectionate nuzzle. Sherlock sighed, tracing shapes over John’s sweaty chest with his finger. After their latest round of lovemaking they’d settled down in front of the hearth and dying fire, draping a blanket over themselves for extra warmth. Sherlock felt delightfully drowsy and loose-limbed but it was Christmas and this might upset John.

“What is it, Sherlock? If you want to go again we’ll have to wait a bit. I’m not 25 anymore,” chuckled John. He kissed Sherlock and Sherlock briefly considered saying nothing, but he powered through.

“John. I–er. I realize this constitutes as a bit not good when one is in a romantic relationship but, ah. I didn’t actually get you anything for Christmas,” he almost whispered the last part. He didn’t know why he felt so guilty. John didn’t assign a lot of value to Christmas anyways and hadn’t since adolescence from what Sherlock had gathered. 

John stared at him for a long moment. Sherlock froze, waiting for the scolding. Then John shrugged, and patted Sherlock’s (somewhat sore) bum. “That’s ok. I didn’t get you anything this year either. To be honest, you’re not easy to shop for.”

The detective gusted a sigh of relief. “Well, I wouldn’t care either ways. I’m very happy with my gift this year,” he added, wriggling meaningfully over John’s groin, where his cock was making a hopeful attempt at hardening. John groaned a bit.

“W-well, I mean you did purchase that lovely set of lingerie. Just think of how many Christmases that could fill up.”

“That was more of a mutual… oh, John… m-mutual gift.”

“Well there you go. Consider your Christmas obligations for me fulfilled for the year. And… if you think about it… you deserve something just as good.”

“Lingerie?”

“No, love… lie back… yeah, something more like…”

“Oh… oh, God, JOHN! J-ohhhhhhh…”

Merry Christmas, thought John to him, as his mouth was rather occupied at the moment.


	24. I Can't Explain Why (St. Nicholas)

“Come on, John! The tracks lead this way!”

Snow crunched under their feet as Sherlock and John sprinted along the wide, tree-lined path, following the hoof prints and sleigh tracks. It was rapidly growing dark, and the suspect had a good head start on them. But if they could just hurry–

“He’s gone!”

“He can’t just be gone–”

“Look around, John, the tracks just end!” Sherlock kicked a snowdrift in frustration. He was right. The tracks simply stopped, no indiction of slowing down or turning. They just…ended, as though they’d just been erased. The snow beyond was pure and untouched.

“He can’t have just disappeared, John. That’s not logical!”

“Then what happened to the tracks? Hold on. Those aren’t horse tracks, they look more like dee-”

“Shut up. Did you hear that?” Sherlock held his hand out, straining his ears. In the distance he could swear he heard… jingling.

John and Sherlock stared at each other. John couldn’t help but grin as Sherlock began to shake his head. “No. No; there’s an explanation for this, there’s no way–”

“Hey, it’s Christmas Eve, crazy things can happen, you know what they say–”

“Shut. Up.”

Neither of them saw the bizarre but unmistakalbe silhouette pass the almost-full moon nor did they hear the distinctive “swoosh” of something large passing over the treetops.


	25. Falls in Love (Christmas Morning)

The presents had been opened. The goose had been eaten, and the pudding. The lights glinted gently over the mirrors and around the windows. The snow-covered street outside was silent, as was 221A downstairs; Mrs. Hudson was with her sister in Cambridge. The only sound was heavy breathing and the slide of flesh against flesh in 221B’s master bedroom. 

“S-Sh-Sherlock… oh…”

“Harder, John! Please!” Sherlock arched underneath his lover, digging his heels into the small of John’s back and impaling himself on his cock. John groaned, biting at Sherlock’s shoulder and doubling his efforts, pounding into Sherlock even harder. Sherlock was nearly shouting in ecstasy; John was grateful they were alone. He hitched Sherlock’s leg over his shoulder and the man practically arched off the beg, gripping handfuls of the pillow like it would ground him. Sherlock shuddered violently and suddenly he was coming, streams of white streaking his torso and neck. John gasped as Sherlock’s clenching muscles triggered his own orgasm and he let go in gut-wrenching, deep pulses. Sherlock was still twitching weakly through his aftershocks when John finally came down to earth. He breathed against Sherlock’s sweaty throat, licking at the darkening bruises he’d left. 

Sherlock sighed and relaxed, stretching languidly like a cat. He reached up and stroked John’s hair tenderly and John fell at tiny bit more in love with him.

“Not too bad for a first Christmas together.”

“’Not too bad?’ John that was… that was amazing. Spectacular! My god, I think I’ve gone hoarse.”

“I’m doing my job well, then,” chuckled John, kissing Sherlock softly. “God, I love you so much. I’m glad we figured ourselves out before it was too late.”

Sherlock nodded gravely, pulling John down against him as though he was scared John would evaporate. “I am as well. John, I’m sor–”

“No. No more apologizing. It’s Christmas. I just want… I just want to be with you, here. Now. What happened then… I don’t want to think about that right now. We’ve done our apologizing.” Sherlock stared, wide-eyed. John was rarely so vocal about his feelings. Maybe it was just the post-sex endorphin rush, but if hormones were what it took to make John open up more, so be it.

“I just… I want to be with you for the rest of our lives, Sherlock. I want to spend every Christmas from now on with you. Can we do that?” He took Sherlock’s face gently between his hands, searching.

“Yes. That’s all I want, John. I’ve wanted this for so, so long.” The detective was tearing up.

John sighed, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you.”  
“I love you too, John.” 

And, softly in John’s ear as he dozed off in the warmth of their bed,

“Merry Christmas, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! Thanks for reading my first-ever challenge. Hopefully I'll do more in the future. Merry Christmas!


End file.
